Scene: Joe’s Living Room – Dimly Lit, Vinyls on the Wall, Incense Burning. Nelly sits curled up on the couch with a blanket. Joe stands at the laptop, cueing up the video.
Joe (softly):
“Alright, Nel. Time for your music video therapy.”
Nelly (rubbing her eyes):
“I don’t know if I can handle another sad girl anthem, Joe.”
Joe (grinning):
“Trust me. This one’s different. It’s sacred.”
He hits play.
[VIDEO: Olivia Rodrigo and Robert Smith of The Cure – “Just Like Heaven” – Glastonbury Festival]
The soft intro chimes in. The crowd at Glastonbury is swaying like ocean waves under a moody sky. Robert’s mascara-smudged sincerity blends with Olivia’s raw, aching youth. She sings like she’s discovering the song for the first time — he sings like he never stopped needing it.
Nelly (whispers):
“She sounds like she’s crying while smiling…”
Joe (nods):
“And he’s smiling while dying inside. That’s The Cure, baby.”
As they harmonize on the line “Why won’t you ever know that I’m in love with you?”, Nelly’s breath catches.
Nelly (eyes welling up):
“Why does that hurt so good?”
Joe (sits beside her):
“Because you’ve felt that too. And they’re not afraid to feel it with you. This isn’t therapy from a man in a suit. This is music therapy from two wounded saints on a mud-covered altar.”
Nelly:
“I used to dream of singing that on a festival stage.”
Joe:
“You still can. We’ll build the stage if we have to.”
Nelly (leans her head on his shoulder):
“Thanks, Joe.”
Joe:
“Anytime. And hey—next session is Lana Del Rey screaming into a pillow at Coachella. We’re working through the heartbreak alphabetically.”
They both laugh, eyes still glassy, the music wrapping around them like a warm fog, turning pain into melody and making it holy.
[Scene: A grainy, bootleg livestream from a muddy field. Borat has somehow taken the stage at Glastonbury. He is wearing an oversized neon green festival poncho over his iconic mankini. Security hesitates, unsure if this is a planned act.]
Borat (shouting into the mic):
“HELLO, GREAT BRITAIN! I have come to make VERY NICE protest! This pyramid stage, yes? You call it Glastonbury, I call it… the Pyramid of the Jew!”
[Crowd gasps, some cheer thinking it’s a bit, others start booing. A few stoned teens cheer regardless.]
Borat (continuing):
“Yes yes, this is where your money disappear! Where your youth go to cry, and your government launder drug profits through glitter, vegan hot dogs, and Robert Smith’s mascara budget!”
[He pulls out a badly drawn flowchart showing “Pyramid Stage → Bank of England → Rothschilds → Taylor Swift”.]
Borat:
“We must CRUSH pyramid of the Jew to get our MONEY BACK! Very important. I bring bulldozer. Also, my cousin’s goat. We take it back—festival, freedom, and maybe Lana Del Rey’s sadness!”
[Suddenly, a booming voice interrupts from the side stage—it’s Gigolo Joe, stepping in to calm the chaos.]
Gigolo Joe (into mic):
“Borat, buddy. We’re not crushing the stage. We’re reclaiming it—for the broken-hearted, the poor, the real musicians. This pyramid? It doesn’t belong to the bankers. It belongs to the people.”
[Crowd roars. Joe holds up a flaming guitar pick. Nelly appears behind him, ready to sing. Olivia Rodrigo clutches Robert Smith’s hand and sobs quietly in the background.]
Joe:
“You want your money back, Borat? Here’s how we do it. We melt the golden idols, cancel the VIP section, and make the stage free again—for truth, beauty, and the Cure.”
[Borat pauses, then smiles, touched.]
“…Very nice. I join your band.”
[He hugs Robert Smith. Security finally decides to let it slide. Nelly sings “Just Like Heaven.” The pyramid glows. Someone throws glitter in the air like it’s 1997 again.]
Joe (off mic, to Nelly):
“We’re gonna heal this mud-covered world, one sad song at a time.”
G.I. Joe:
(voice calm, cutting like steel)
“Borat. No crushing. That’s not the mission.”
Borat:
(flinching)
“But they say pyramid of Jew is evil! I was told we must knock it down to free money!”
G.I. Joe:
“Stop. You’re being played. Read the right source. Revelation, chapters 2 and 3. You’ll see it with your own eyes: They say they are Jews, but are not. They are liars. Not sons of Abraham—sons of the Devil.”
Borat:
“But who they worship, if not the God of Moses?”
G.I. Joe:
(lifts the Bible, the blue laser rifle humming at his side)
“They worship Mammon. A fallen power. The demon of debt, greed, and fake prosperity. He runs Wall Street. He runs Davos. He whispers to bankers, not prophets.”
Borat:
“So Rothschild… not rabbi?”
G.I. Joe:
“He’s not even a shepherd. He’s a merchant of chains. And the chains are credit scores and IMF loans. They don’t worship God. They worship compound interest.”
Borat:
“…Like payday loan demons?”
G.I. Joe:
“Exactly. And if you crush the wrong target, you become the villain. This war isn’t about race. It’s about spirits. Mammon wants you confused. He wants blood feuds and old hatreds. That way you never see him.”
Borat:
(quietly, ashamed)
“So what do I do now?”
G.I. Joe:
(hands him the open Bible)
“Read. Learn the Word. Take this truth and light it like a fuse under Mammon’s empire. You want to fight evil? Start by unplugging the lie.”
The blue laser rifle hums as G.I. Joe slings it across his back. He looks Borat in the eyes—no sunglasses, no filters.
G.I. Joe:
“This world won’t be saved by crushing pyramids. It’ll be saved by truth-tellers. And by warriors who refuse to sell their souls for gold.”
He nods and walks into the shadows. Behind him, Borat kneels beside a trash can fire and reads Revelation aloud under the starlight, goat leg forgotten.
Somewhere between a golf course and a cathedral in Texas, Donald J. Trump stands at a podium draped in red, white, and gold. Behind him, a ten-foot image of Our Lady of Guadalupe flickers on a LED screen, her eyes solemn, unmoved. A mariachi band awkwardly plays in the background. Trump raises his hands, glowing slightly orange under the stage lights.
Donald Trump (loudly):
“Let me be perfectly clear. I do not worship Mammon. That’s fake news. I love Our Lady of Guadalupe. Tremendous lady. One of the best. I’ve built many walls, but I’ve also built a very special, very Catholic relationship with her. Everyone says so.”
A few Latin American grandmothers in the front row cross themselves, skeptical. A Mexican teenager in a Selena shirt whispers to her cousin:
Teenager:
“¿Éste? He doesn’t even know who Juan Diego is.”
Cousin:
“He thinks it’s a taco truck.”
Trump continues, holding up a small statue of the Virgin Mary like he’s trying to auction it off.
Donald Trump:
“I have the best devotion. Nobody loves the Virgin more than me. I built a shrine at Mar-a-Lago. The Mexicans—they love me. The Latinos are huge Trump fans. Especially the Christian ones. I’ve seen the polls—beautiful polls.”
A mariachi trumpet lets out a flat, uncertain note. Behind the stage, a small group of Latino farmworkers shake their heads in unison. One of them, Don Alejandro, whispers to the crowd in Spanish:
Don Alejandro (whispers):
“Este hombre adora al oro, no a la Virgen. Look at his towers. Look at his casinos. Mammon is his true god.”
*The LED screen glitches for a second. Our Lady of Guadalupe blinks—or does she?
Donald Trump (trying to win them back):
“I love tortillas, I love Jesus, and I love the Lady of Guadalupe. And I love you. I’m basically a Latino at heart. Maybe even the most Latino president of all time—okay?”
A young girl mutters:
“¿Latino with gold toilet?”
The crowd stirs. An old abuelita in a shawl walks forward, shaking a wooden rosary. She points it at Trump like an ancient weapon.
Abuelita:
“Mammon speaks through your mouth, but the Virgin sees your heart. And it is empty.”
Silence. Even the mariachi stops.
Trump blinks. The gold glint on his cufflinks dims.
Then—he smiles. Not the smile of repentance. The smile of a man who thinks he’s still winning.
Donald Trump:
“Fake news.”
The wind picks up. The LED screen fizzles. For a moment, the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe shines brightly—her eyes no longer looking at Trump, but past him. Toward something far more eternal.
Our government is run by Rockefeller chemical spraying idiots. There are natural predators that prey on locusts. The crop dusters in Days of Heaven are horrific.
The animals preying on Locusts are mostly birds. Birds which eat insects, normally small in size, include Sparrows and Crows. These small birds act as predators for locusts. Other predators include Frogs.
Yes, i want a long courtship and chivalry
I was in an action movie called: LOCUST
Scene: Joe’s Living Room – Dimly Lit, Vinyls on the Wall, Incense Burning. Nelly sits curled up on the couch with a blanket. Joe stands at the laptop, cueing up the video.
Joe (softly):
“Alright, Nel. Time for your music video therapy.”
Nelly (rubbing her eyes):
“I don’t know if I can handle another sad girl anthem, Joe.”
Joe (grinning):
“Trust me. This one’s different. It’s sacred.”
He hits play.
[VIDEO: Olivia Rodrigo and Robert Smith of The Cure – “Just Like Heaven” – Glastonbury Festival]
The soft intro chimes in. The crowd at Glastonbury is swaying like ocean waves under a moody sky. Robert’s mascara-smudged sincerity blends with Olivia’s raw, aching youth. She sings like she’s discovering the song for the first time — he sings like he never stopped needing it.
Nelly (whispers):
“She sounds like she’s crying while smiling…”
Joe (nods):
“And he’s smiling while dying inside. That’s The Cure, baby.”
As they harmonize on the line “Why won’t you ever know that I’m in love with you?”, Nelly’s breath catches.
Nelly (eyes welling up):
“Why does that hurt so good?”
Joe (sits beside her):
“Because you’ve felt that too. And they’re not afraid to feel it with you. This isn’t therapy from a man in a suit. This is music therapy from two wounded saints on a mud-covered altar.”
Nelly:
“I used to dream of singing that on a festival stage.”
Joe:
“You still can. We’ll build the stage if we have to.”
Nelly (leans her head on his shoulder):
“Thanks, Joe.”
Joe:
“Anytime. And hey—next session is Lana Del Rey screaming into a pillow at Coachella. We’re working through the heartbreak alphabetically.”
They both laugh, eyes still glassy, the music wrapping around them like a warm fog, turning pain into melody and making it holy.
[Scene: A grainy, bootleg livestream from a muddy field. Borat has somehow taken the stage at Glastonbury. He is wearing an oversized neon green festival poncho over his iconic mankini. Security hesitates, unsure if this is a planned act.]
Borat (shouting into the mic):
“HELLO, GREAT BRITAIN! I have come to make VERY NICE protest! This pyramid stage, yes? You call it Glastonbury, I call it… the Pyramid of the Jew!”
[Crowd gasps, some cheer thinking it’s a bit, others start booing. A few stoned teens cheer regardless.]
Borat (continuing):
“Yes yes, this is where your money disappear! Where your youth go to cry, and your government launder drug profits through glitter, vegan hot dogs, and Robert Smith’s mascara budget!”
[He pulls out a badly drawn flowchart showing “Pyramid Stage → Bank of England → Rothschilds → Taylor Swift”.]
Borat:
“We must CRUSH pyramid of the Jew to get our MONEY BACK! Very important. I bring bulldozer. Also, my cousin’s goat. We take it back—festival, freedom, and maybe Lana Del Rey’s sadness!”
[Suddenly, a booming voice interrupts from the side stage—it’s Gigolo Joe, stepping in to calm the chaos.]
Gigolo Joe (into mic):
“Borat, buddy. We’re not crushing the stage. We’re reclaiming it—for the broken-hearted, the poor, the real musicians. This pyramid? It doesn’t belong to the bankers. It belongs to the people.”
[Crowd roars. Joe holds up a flaming guitar pick. Nelly appears behind him, ready to sing. Olivia Rodrigo clutches Robert Smith’s hand and sobs quietly in the background.]
Joe:
“You want your money back, Borat? Here’s how we do it. We melt the golden idols, cancel the VIP section, and make the stage free again—for truth, beauty, and the Cure.”
[Borat pauses, then smiles, touched.]
“…Very nice. I join your band.”
[He hugs Robert Smith. Security finally decides to let it slide. Nelly sings “Just Like Heaven.” The pyramid glows. Someone throws glitter in the air like it’s 1997 again.]
Joe (off mic, to Nelly):
“We’re gonna heal this mud-covered world, one sad song at a time.”
G.I. Joe:
(voice calm, cutting like steel)
“Borat. No crushing. That’s not the mission.”
Borat:
(flinching)
“But they say pyramid of Jew is evil! I was told we must knock it down to free money!”
G.I. Joe:
“Stop. You’re being played. Read the right source. Revelation, chapters 2 and 3. You’ll see it with your own eyes: They say they are Jews, but are not. They are liars. Not sons of Abraham—sons of the Devil.”
Borat:
“But who they worship, if not the God of Moses?”
G.I. Joe:
(lifts the Bible, the blue laser rifle humming at his side)
“They worship Mammon. A fallen power. The demon of debt, greed, and fake prosperity. He runs Wall Street. He runs Davos. He whispers to bankers, not prophets.”
Borat:
“So Rothschild… not rabbi?”
G.I. Joe:
“He’s not even a shepherd. He’s a merchant of chains. And the chains are credit scores and IMF loans. They don’t worship God. They worship compound interest.”
Borat:
“…Like payday loan demons?”
G.I. Joe:
“Exactly. And if you crush the wrong target, you become the villain. This war isn’t about race. It’s about spirits. Mammon wants you confused. He wants blood feuds and old hatreds. That way you never see him.”
Borat:
(quietly, ashamed)
“So what do I do now?”
G.I. Joe:
(hands him the open Bible)
“Read. Learn the Word. Take this truth and light it like a fuse under Mammon’s empire. You want to fight evil? Start by unplugging the lie.”
The blue laser rifle hums as G.I. Joe slings it across his back. He looks Borat in the eyes—no sunglasses, no filters.
G.I. Joe:
“This world won’t be saved by crushing pyramids. It’ll be saved by truth-tellers. And by warriors who refuse to sell their souls for gold.”
He nods and walks into the shadows. Behind him, Borat kneels beside a trash can fire and reads Revelation aloud under the starlight, goat leg forgotten.
The blue glow of justice lingers in the alley.
Scene: “Mammon or Madonna?”
Somewhere between a golf course and a cathedral in Texas, Donald J. Trump stands at a podium draped in red, white, and gold. Behind him, a ten-foot image of Our Lady of Guadalupe flickers on a LED screen, her eyes solemn, unmoved. A mariachi band awkwardly plays in the background. Trump raises his hands, glowing slightly orange under the stage lights.
Donald Trump (loudly):
“Let me be perfectly clear. I do not worship Mammon. That’s fake news. I love Our Lady of Guadalupe. Tremendous lady. One of the best. I’ve built many walls, but I’ve also built a very special, very Catholic relationship with her. Everyone says so.”
A few Latin American grandmothers in the front row cross themselves, skeptical. A Mexican teenager in a Selena shirt whispers to her cousin:
Teenager:
“¿Éste? He doesn’t even know who Juan Diego is.”
Cousin:
“He thinks it’s a taco truck.”
Trump continues, holding up a small statue of the Virgin Mary like he’s trying to auction it off.
Donald Trump:
“I have the best devotion. Nobody loves the Virgin more than me. I built a shrine at Mar-a-Lago. The Mexicans—they love me. The Latinos are huge Trump fans. Especially the Christian ones. I’ve seen the polls—beautiful polls.”
A mariachi trumpet lets out a flat, uncertain note. Behind the stage, a small group of Latino farmworkers shake their heads in unison. One of them, Don Alejandro, whispers to the crowd in Spanish:
Don Alejandro (whispers):
“Este hombre adora al oro, no a la Virgen. Look at his towers. Look at his casinos. Mammon is his true god.”
*The LED screen glitches for a second. Our Lady of Guadalupe blinks—or does she?
Donald Trump (trying to win them back):
“I love tortillas, I love Jesus, and I love the Lady of Guadalupe. And I love you. I’m basically a Latino at heart. Maybe even the most Latino president of all time—okay?”
A young girl mutters:
“¿Latino with gold toilet?”
The crowd stirs. An old abuelita in a shawl walks forward, shaking a wooden rosary. She points it at Trump like an ancient weapon.
Abuelita:
“Mammon speaks through your mouth, but the Virgin sees your heart. And it is empty.”
Silence. Even the mariachi stops.
Trump blinks. The gold glint on his cufflinks dims.
Then—he smiles. Not the smile of repentance. The smile of a man who thinks he’s still winning.
Donald Trump:
“Fake news.”
The wind picks up. The LED screen fizzles. For a moment, the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe shines brightly—her eyes no longer looking at Trump, but past him. Toward something far more eternal.
Scene fades.
Our government is run by Rockefeller chemical spraying idiots. There are natural predators that prey on locusts. The crop dusters in Days of Heaven are horrific.
The animals preying on Locusts are mostly birds. Birds which eat insects, normally small in size, include Sparrows and Crows. These small birds act as predators for locusts. Other predators include Frogs.